


An der schönen blauen Donau

by zetsubou69



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Dancing, F/M, Gen, M/M, soft and sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-24 14:38:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17706152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zetsubou69/pseuds/zetsubou69
Summary: Idea: Late at night, on his way to get himself a cuppa Peter spots the Nightingale and Molly dancing together. It’s completely innocent, but he can’t look away anyway.





	An der schönen blauen Donau

**Author's Note:**

> Fact: Strauss wrote a really great waltz. Maybe listen to it as you read...?

Living in the Folly had me discover an utterly new set of quirks specific only to inhabitants of the last stronghold of Isaacian magic in London (last only as far as the Nightingale thought). Most of them were innocent. The way Molly hisses when she’s amused. My governor-slash-friend polishing all of his shoes - an odd display of menswear fashion trends throughout the century on the kitchen table every now and then - while wearing an apron. The fact that I have to get dressed for breakfast - and I don’t mean simply wear any clothes, I mean wearing clothes nice enough I could go out to a nice café, since ratty sweatpants and an old T-shirt don’t count, not even on Saturday and definitely not on Sunday mornings.

Nightingale himself is always impeccably dressed no matter the situation. His idea of casual Friday is wearing a cashmere sweater (my personal favourite was the baby blue one that made his eyes stand out) and sometimes exchanging his shoes for slippers late at night, dressed in his silk jimjams and matching dressing gown - this was not knowledge I sought on purpose, but when you’re living together with someone it is unavoidable that you’ll eventually meet them at 2 am returning from a night out, while they’re grabbing just a quick midnight snack or a glass of water. I was dressed up but properly debauched and I had a nasty love-bite on my collar bone while I smelled of the other guy’s cologne. Meanwhile, Nightingale was perfectly put together even in his fricking PJs. It was as awkward as you expect but fortunately, we never had to discuss this particular topic. Ever. Since.

Because when you live with someone you learn to differentiate between what is up for discussion (Molly’s cooking at your own risk, recommended literature in Latin anytime) and what needs not to be discussed (who will walk Toby or any private things - the former because Nightingale played his SO card, the latter because we’re British for God’s sake).

Still, I take great joy in observing the quirks of my new home. Magic aside, there were plenty of seemingly non-magical things that still had plenty of charm.

Like the people who I live with.

 

*

 

Molly, being Molly, has quirks and oddities that are not up for discussion as long as I want to sleep peacefully at night and wake up alive the next morning. Among those are things such as eating raw meat, stealing any piece of clothing that is so close to falling apart that she decides to repurpose it instead of mending it, cooking hearty meals with lots of potatoes and gravy, and others.

Nightingale himself avoids dealing with anyone he doesn’t deem worthy his attention at the moment. I guess that’s the thing you can afford doing when you are such a powerful practitioner that you can destroy WW2 Tiger tank with a single spell.

Having lived together for many decades they’ve found their quirks converging on some occasions. I’ve had the chance to witness that first hand and I can consider myself lucky because judge me all you want, I have a working set of eyes and while Molly could have me for breakfast and Nightingale is perhaps a weapon of mass destruction, they can paint an extraordinarily beautiful picture together.

Let’s not get ahead of ourselves though.

 

*

 

It’s close to midnight when I leave my room wearing only my ‘come to the dark side we have cookies’ tee and cosy sweatpants to get myself a fresh cuppa and maybe a scone if there are any left. I avoid falling over the snoring dog in front of my room, Toby’s letting out regular exhales, his body expanding and getting smaller with each breath, then I continue down the stair. The Folly is eerily silent during the night, the walls are thick enough that you can’t hear most of the traffic even during the day, but at night a strange ambience sets in and I always think it’s because it’s Molly’s time to rule all over us while we all pretend to sleep.

As I get downstairs I begin to hear soft music emanating from the reading room Nightingale uses in the evenings. It piques my interest so I creep in slowly, listening attentively. The music is of that wordless classical type, 18th century Vienna would love it, or so I guess because it that three-four time slow enough for the fancy kind of dancing I’ve never learned.

The doors open so I peek in and freeze as if petrified by a spell. Nightingale has pulled out and dusted off his old gramophone and it’s playing the music currently of an old record - the sound including the soft rustling is so specific yet pleasing I would stay and listen only for that. But that’s not the end of it.

Since it’s so late, he’s taken off his suit jacket and tie, they’re laying forgotten on a chair. He’s also removed his cufflinks and rolled up his sleeves and has unbuttoned few buttons of his shirt. He looks nonchalant, if a bit laid back, a picture of relaxation.

Yet, his spine is soldier-like straight and he’s standing upright, his arms extended in front of himself where he’s holding Molly as they dance around the room to the rhythm set by the orchestra.

Molly herself isn’t wearing her cap, which I don’t remember ever seeing her without, her skirt is flowing around her just like her long black hair. They look like a picture out of a movie together, not like something I should be able to see with my own eyes on a random weekday.

I lean against the doorframe and watch them dancing, completely lost in the music to notice me - at least so I hope. There’s a wonderful thing happening in front of me and I would be an idiot if I were to leave or disturb it. Even though I know that staring is creepy.

As the song comes to an end, Nightingale twirls Molly few times and then he bows a bit, his lips hovering an inch above her hand, before he straightens once again and lets go of her.

“Thank you for the dance, Molly. Would you like to dance some more or is it time to put my old bones to rest?” he says and chuckles.

Molly beams at him, giving him a sharp-toothed smile, then she hisses at him and clicks her tongue once. Both she and Nightingale turn their head to look at me.

“Ah, Peter, I hope we haven’t woken you up.”

“Nope, I was just on my way to make myself a cuppa. You looked great, dancing. Sorry for interrupting.”

“Nonsense,” Nightingale shakes his head and smiles at me - I would say almost fondly. “Would you like to dance? I can rewind the recording and I promise Molly is an excellent partner,” he offers.

I shake my head.

“Sorry, I only run, been born with two left feet. I’m sorry Molly but I really don’t want to step on your toes just because I don’t know the steps.”

Both Molly and Nightingale raise their eyebrows in a question, but only Nightingale speaks up.

“They don’t even teach dancing in schools anymore? What has happened to that?”

I just shrug my shoulders.

“You have to pay for special courses and my mum never saw a reason for that and then I had plenty of other things to occupy myself.”

He just shakes his head exasperatedly and rewinds the gramophone.

“Molly, I’m afraid I can’t leave him uneducated in these matters,” Nightingale tells her but she just huffs, obviously unwilling to take any part in my education. Then she looks at him and moves her hand and Nightingale nods.

“Of course, anytime,” he tells her before she glides away.

Sometimes I really can’t understand them but that’s what I presume living together for over fifty years does to people.

“So, would you care to learn now or does tea interest you more?” he smiles at me and I finally notice an empty glass and tumbler of brandy on the table next to the gramophone. No wonder he’s so relaxed, he must be bit buzzed. But I would be an idiot not to enjoy the moment.

“How hard can it be,” I joke and step into the room.

Nightingale starts by showing me basic steps - it’s not hard, but I guess it’s like anything I’ve learned from him so far - it’ll need lots of practice to make it look alright. He explains the difference between what is supposed to be woman’s and man’s part and how he’s okay dancing backwards now and how I’m supposed to lead and hold someone properly. We practice without music for a minute and before he says it’s time to try it for real.

“Don’t forget to stand up straight. Even if there’s nothing else, keep your spine nice and straight,” he says mischievously and it takes me a second to realize he’s just made a joke about himself. His smirk only confirms it. I’m amused he’s up-to-date with today’s queer lingo, so I laugh and take his hand when he extends it. He put his other hand on my shoulder and I place my hand on his hip, feeling the warmth of his body he radiates. The Folly is definitely not one of your modern passive houses, so my hands are cold, therefore I bask in the touch.

He taps his finger against my shoulder and the needle drops. The music starts playing and I take the first step forward.

All in all, our first dance is nothing incredibly memorable. I make several clumsy missteps, fortunately, I’m wearing thick woollen socks while Nightingale is armoured in his hand-made Oxford shoes, so there are no wounded toes. He’s patient with me and I get the chance to enjoy my extra inch of height and stare down into his eyes (because in my mind even an angle of three degrees count - you don’t want to know what happens if you miscalculate this much when building houses, I know, I studied it!). They are pretty and as we dance we slide closer and closer together until we’re in each other’s embrace safely.

I almost don’t notice the music has stopped, but it’s the moment Nightingale stops moving too.

“Well, I can safely say, that this tutoring session has been successful,” he remarks and I get to enjoy the soft blush colouring his otherwise mostly pale cheeks.

I blink and stare at his face. I realize I know the look he’s giving me. I’ve seen it on many other faces before. So hoping I haven’t misread the situation I lean forward and press a brief chaste kiss against his lips. They were as soft as I imagined. I savour the moment until I let go of him as an audible gasp escapes him.

“Peter...”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what got into me,” I try to hide the acute feeling of embarrassment that overcame me when I realized I’ve just kissed my governor.

I can feel his piercing gaze, but he takes pity on me and touches my shoulder softly.

“It’s late. I think it will be best if we call it a night. If there’s anything you’d like to talk about, I’ll still be here in the morning.”

I feel like a great weight was lifted from my shoulders so I just nod, my face still burning hot with shame.

“That sounds great.”

“Goodnight, Peter.”

“Goodnight, Thomas,” I reply, trying out his name on my tongue. Then I turn around and flee back upstairs, the cuppa I’ve wanted before completely forgotten.

 

*

 

When the morning comes I am saved from talking about my feelings by a phone call. Seawoll is demanding that we show up at a freaky crime scene as soon as possible so I skip breakfast and off we go in the Jag, to solve more crimes.

The glances we sneak of each other go unmentioned.


End file.
